


went into a restaurant, lookin for the cook

by LazyMedusa



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyMedusa/pseuds/LazyMedusa
Summary: When Rafael Barba packs in his job with the D.A., he picks up a gig as a food critic.The subject of his first piece? A little place called Il Nonna Carisi.a.k.a Rafael eats a lot of Italian food and Sonny cooks.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54
Collections: Barisi Professions Bingo





	1. Aperitivo

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream" by Bob Dylan.
> 
> For the Barisi Professions Bingo. Fills squares Journalist and Chef.

“And what makes you think I’d even want the job, Rita?”

Rafael Barba plucked an olive from the bowl in the middle of the table and caught it between his teeth. The seasonings in the oil complimented the olive’s saltiness perfectly.

“I just _assumed_ you were looking for something, Rafael, to keep you in Starbucks and pocket squares, if nothing else.”

Dinner out — to ‘catch up’ she’d said, not to harass — had been Rita’s suggestion. The little Italian restaurant across from her office had been Barba’s — not quite a hole-in-the-wall, but somewhere he was unlikely to be spotted by anyone who knew him. He wasn’t ready, yet, for the usual rounds of verbal sparring with anyone but Rita.

Over Rita’s shoulder, the kitchen door swung open and a young-looking blonde stormed out. Rafael leaned back and took a sip of his champagne, intrigued. 

Hot on her heels came a man — all arms and legs — dressed in sauce splattered chefs’ whites. The kitchen door bounced in its frame as it swung back and forth.

“Gina!” called the chef. _God, what an accent_. Rafael winced. _Not bad looking though…_ The man threw his hands up when Gina decided to ignore him completely and raked his long fingers through his slicked back hair.

_Interesting._

Rafael turned his attention back to Rita, who was watching him over the rim of her glass with her usual, faintly smug, expression. 

She examined her manicure.

“Well?”

Rafael scowled.

Since handing in his notice to the DA’s Office, he’d struggled to find something that really spoke to him — something that ‘fit’. The law just didn’t have the same shine to it anymore.

“You could always come and work for me,” Rita drawled.

“That would be a no.” He was decided on that much, at the very least.

“Don’t be glib. You know the offer is a good one. And it’s always open. We could defend the wrongly accused together. It’d be fun.”

It would not be fun.

Rafael sighed. “You don’t defend the wrongly accused, Rita.”

“I do when they can afford me.”

Rafael raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his champagne. If he wanted to keep up these dinners with Rita Calhoun — without relying upon her to foot the bill — he’d have to find some kind of employment. Too bad he couldn’t think of anything.

“Why does Brett want me anyway? I’m no food critic.”

“But you _are_ naturally critical,” Rita joked. She waved a lazy hand. “His regular guy’s moving to Montana. It’ll only be for a few weeks — a month or two maybe — just until he finds someone new that he likes. He says there’s a certain ‘fit’ to these things. Think of it as a trial run, or a guest spot, if you like.”

“But why me?”

“Because I told him that you need something to keep you occupied and beacause he owed me a favor. Besides, you do have good taste, usually, and—”

“And?” he pressed.

Nothing was ever this straight-forward with Rita. Much as he loved his best-friend, Rafael knew she always — _always_ — held something back. It was what made her such a formidable lawyer.

She sighed, rolling her eyes at him. It was the look she wore when she knew that she’d lost an argument. She’d concede the point, but not without a fight.

“And… Brett likes that you went after Jolene Castille. It’s a point of interest for his readers. Maybe you could review _Chez Jolene_ for him sometime?”

Now there was an idea with an appeal to it.

“Perhaps…” he drawled.

Rita smirked, smelling victory.

_There’s a reason they call lawyers sharks_ , thought Rafael. He smiled to himself. He could make lawyer jokes now.

“Not _Chez Jolene_ ,” he said, “not right away at least.”

“Start here then.” Rita spread her arms, taking in the little Italian, brightly lit by the afternoon sunlight.

“ _Il Nonna Carisi_?”

“Why not? Today’s the test run. Then, you can re-visit for your first piece.”

Rafael sighed and tossed back another olive. “Fine,” he said. “As a trial run.”

“As a trial run,” Rita agreed. “That’s all I ask.”


	2. Antipasti

“I don’t see why you wanted to sit this close to the kitchen, Rafa. There’re perfectly good tables right over there by the windows. They’ve a good view of the street, I could ask them to move us.”

“Still keeping an eye out for suspects?” Rafael smirked. “Always the cop, Liv.”

“Perhaps.” She took a sip of her wine. “And I thought you’d always be an ADA.” An eyebrow went up. “We’re going to talk about that, you know.”

“I’m sure we will,” Rafael muttered. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, still desperate to avoid the conversation he’d been waiting for all evening. Was it better to get the lecture over with, or have it hanging over his head for the rest of the night? They were only just starting on the bruschetta...

Speaking of… He took a bite from a slice. Crisp and crunchy Italian toast, piled high with sliced red onion and cherry tomatoes. The sweetness was beautifully cut by tart balsamic syrup and fruity pomegranate molasses.

Olivia scowled at him over the dinner table. The candle — their waitress, a blonde, had insisted — flickered, highlighting the tight set of Liv’s jaw and the fire in his eyes. She picked up the wine list, fanning herself with the laminated card.

“Come on,” he protested, “it’s not that warm.”

“For you, maybe,” she said. “On this side of the table, every time that door opens, I get a blast of hot air and a waft of garlic.”

“You like garlic.”

“Seriously, Rafa?”

He shrugged. “I think the view is better here.”

Liv scoffed but let it slide, grabbing a slice of the bruschetta from their shared plate.

A window just across from their table gave a clear view straight into the kitchen. Scraps of paper hung down from the top of the frame like bunting. Behind it, the staff — in red and green aprons — danced around each other in a cacophony of busy shouts, singing pots and chattering steel.

The chef — the same handsome one he’d noticed before — was in the thick of the chaos, barking out orders and directing traffic. When he moved to stand before the window though… He plated up meals with a delicate touch, placing finishing touches with deft fingers.

Rafael took a long sip of his scotch, savouring the view and the flavor.

A high-pitched beeping brought him back to the table. Liv looked down at her phone, swiping at the screen and reading through her messages. Her face fell.

“I’m so sorry…”

“You have to go?”

She nodded, standing, and pulling on her jacket. “Fin’s caught a case.” She clipped on her NYPD shield. It glittered as it caught the light.

“Go.” He waved off her apologies and flagged down a passing waitress. “Can we cancel the duck, please?”

The girl glanced down at Olivia’s hip, nodded, and hurried back to the kitchen.

With a rueful wave goodbye, Liv left for the station, leaving Rafael to finish their meal alone.

“Did I miss her?”

Rafael looked up. The lanky chef loomed over the table, his hands on his hips and a little breathless. Concern was etched onto his handsome face.

Rafael blinked.

“Your friend, she’s NYPD. Am I right?”

“A detective — a sergeant actually — with SVU.”

“Damn… Here,” he put something down on the table, a card with green lettering and gold foil. “It’s a gift card,” he explained, “for a meal on the house. ‘Got to support New York’s Finest, right?”

Rafael reached out, spinning the card around to read before slipping it into his pocket. “Thank you for this, I’ll pass it along. Is this your restaurant, then?”

“Dominick Carisi, Jr.” The younger man stuck out his hand, grinning broadly. “Call me Sonny.”

Rafael shook the proffered hand. The chef had a firm grip but lacked the irritating power-move crush he had grown used to in the DA’s Office.

“Rafael Barba.”

“Hey, now that your date has had to leave, you mind if I join you for a moment? I’m run off my feet in there.”

Rafael blinked. “Of course not. And it wasn’t a date.”

Why had he said that? Rafael felt his cheeks flush and was grateful for both his summer tan and the low lighting. The chef — Mr Carisi — smiled. Dimples appeared on the otherwise angular face. Actual dimples, thought Rafael with a touch of panic. He has honest to God dimples. Carisi slipped in Liv’s vacated seat, his long limbs surprisingly graceful.

“Mind if I...?” He gestured to the remaining slices of bruschetta. At Rafael’s silent nod — Seriously, who was this guy? Who did this? — he picked up a piece and munched away happily, grinning across the table as he did so.

“So…” Rafael floundered for something to say. What was wrong with him tonight? He never got tongue-tied. He was never lost for words. “Nonna Carisi. Do you keep Nonna locked away in the kitchen?” Dios mio… that was awkward.

He could hear Rita laughing at him already.

Carisi seemed easily amused though. He threw out a lazy grin and chuckled. “Nah. My nonna? She can’t boil an egg, you know? I take boxes around every Sunday and she reheats ‘em on the stove.”

Rafael laughed. “I respect her forward planning in having a grandson who can cook.”

“I like feeding people.” He shrugged. “It’s all PR really. My sister’s idea. Good for the image, ya know? A nice, wholesome Italian grandma.” He pointed to the bruschetta. “Did you like those?”

“Delicious,” said Rafael quickly.

“Good. That’s great. You should try the new one next time. We’ve got a version coming out with olive tapenade and goat's cheese.”

Rafael wasn’t sure what he thought of that, but if it got Chef Carisi to come and sit with him again he’d be willing to try pretty much anything the younger man suggested.

“I gotta go. My sister’s running things through in the back and she can be a right witch with the staff. I’ll get that duck boxed up when it’s ready and brought out with your meal. You can take it away for lunch tomorrow.”

“Because you like feeding people?”

Carisi just smirked. Then, with another dimpled smile, he was off, headed back to the hectic kitchen.

The blonde waitress came to clear the table and refill Rafael’s glass.

Rafael pulled out his phone and began typing, his fingers flying across the screen. He had so much to share with Rita over brunch.


	3. Chapter 3

  
It had been two weeks since Rafael’s review of _Il Nonna Carisi_ had been published. Since then, the restaurant's Google rating had gone up by a star and it had climbed three places on TripAdvisor’s _Best Italian Restaurants in Manhattan_.  
  
Not that Rafael was keeping track.  
  
And not that he was looking for an excuse to go back so soon. He had other reviews to write up, of course. His editor was pretty flexible but featuring the same place twice in two weeks wasn’t likely to thrill his readers. Still, Rafael did have a complimentary voucher to redeem. It would be rude not to return.  
  
Unfortunately, Liv was caught up in her latest case — some frat party nightmare at Hudson — and hadn't had time for more than a few texts and a snapshot of Noah since their last meal out.  
  
 _To hell with it_ , thought Rafael.  
  
He dialled an Uber.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The car dropped him off in front of _Il Nonna Carisi_. Tuesday night and past the dinner rush, there were a couple of empty tables dotted about the room.  
  
He was quickly escorted — at his request — to a table in the back by yet another tall, blond woman. This one wielded a clipboard as a shield. Rafael thought he saw a little of Chef Carisi around the eyes.  
  
He wondered how many Carisis worked in the restaurant, and if she was one of them.  
  
He started with the bruschetta — the tapenade and goat’s cheese — because he’d said he would. Not as good as the classic version, he decided, but nothing to be sniffed at.  
  
He’d thought ahead this time. Two weeks of eating out and dozens of practice reviews had given him confidence in his opinions. He’d brought along an old legal pad — his case notes torn out and filled by Carmen before he left — to jot down his thoughts. With two more reviews under his belt – an under-rated Southern-fusion place in the East Village and a Japanese start-up in Fort Greene — he’d found his rhythm and a system that worked for him.  
  
He was tucking into his Spaghetti Amatriciana — tomato, pepper, pork, and garlic — and scribbling his impressions down in the notepad when someone cleared their throat above him. He looked up, mouth still full of pasta, to find blue eyes twinkling down at him.  
  
“You’ve got sauce on your tie.”  
  
He swallowed. Hard.  
  
“I do not,” he scoffed. “I—” He looked down. A dribble of red sauce ran down the front of his two-hundred-dollar cashmere tie.  
  
Rafael groaned, snatching up a linen napkin and doing his best to mop up the worst of the damage.  
  
Carisi failed to hide a chuckle behind his hand. “Mind if I join you? I’m done for the night.”  
  
Rafael blinked. The napkin slipped from his fingers, landing on top of his pasta. He scowled and moved it before looking up at Carisi. The chef was grinning down at him, like an overeager puppy, two seconds away from bouncing on his heels and wagging his tail.  
  
“Sit, Mr Carisi.” He pushed the chair out with his foot and Carisi sat down.  
  
“Call me Sonny.”  
  
“Sonny,” he agreed. Rafael fought not to roll his eyes. _What a name for a grown man…_  
  
Carisi — _Sonny_ — waved at one of the waitresses through the kitchen window. The girl came out immediately, carrying a plate of pasta ribbons in a white sauce.  
  
“Confident,” said Rafael, “aren’t we?”  
  
Sonny smiled. “I don't ask questions I don't already know the answers to.”  
  
“Alright, _Sonny_ ,” he stressed the ridiculous nickname, “why don't you let me ask the questions then?”  
  
“Alright, Counsellor.”  
  
Rafael froze, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his lips.  
  
“How did you know that I used to be a lawyer?”  
  
“They put your name and photo at the top of your reviews. I Googled you.”  
  
“Quite the detective, Mr Carisi.”  
  
Carisi blushed. “Sonny.”  
  
Rafael nodded, smirking. “Sonny.” He popped the pasta coil into his mouth, careful not to drop his sauce. “So, tell me about yourself. Did you _open Il Nonna Carisi_ alone or is it a family affair? Have you always been interested in cooking? Are you planning to expand? Why here, and not on Staten Island?”  
  
“Woah, woah, woah,” Sonny laughed. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Take a breath, Counsellor. What was the first question again? Who’s all here? Well, you're right, it’s not just me. There’s Theresa, she’s my oldest sister—”  
  
“—Oldest?”  
  
“Yeah, I got three of ‘em. Theresa, you already met. She works the door most nights. Then we got Gina, Bella and my niece, Mia. All waitressing. Gina’s only part-time though. She’s got a side-gig doing fancy mani-pedis or something.... I dunno.”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
Rafael glanced down at his own hands, wondering how long it had been since his last manicure. His nails were looking a little rough.  
  
Not that he wanted to impress Sonny Carisi.  
  
Not at all.  
  
“Alright, so tell me about Nonna Carisi.”  



	4. Secondi

  
“What are you talking about — the spiedini di mare without the scallops? Are you kiddin’ me?”  
  
Rafael took a careful — mindful of the Alexander Olch tie around his neck — spoonful of his minestrone. The soup was warming and homey with just a hint of smoke coming through as an afterthought. He looked up into the irate face of a leggy Staten Islander.  
  
Sonny’s eyes were hot, not unlike the kitchen he loved. The kitchen he’d just stormed out of, brandishing a floppy pad of white paper like the red flag before a bull.  
  
Rafael fought down a fond smile — a frustrated, confused Sonny really was an adorable sight — years of trial work letting him shift it effortlessly into a careless smirk.  
  
“I don't like scallops.”  
  
“You don't like—” Sonny’s face shut down, blank and uncomprehending.  
  
Rafael tugged at his sleeve, double checking that the cuff was sitting smoothly. He felt a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the food run up the back of his neck. The tips of his ears burned. “I don't like scallops,” he repeated, “but the rest of the dish sounded good. Surely, it’s not too much to ask, _Chef Carisi_ —” added stress on the title “—for a restaurant currently trending, after yet another glowing critical review, to make a slight change to a simple dish?”  
  
 _Il Nonna Carisi_ was the hottest up-and-coming Italian in Manhattan. After Rafael’s review — glowing but even he could admit, inexpert, and in a niche paper to boot — Carisi’s had started popping up more and more on social media. After his follow-up piece, it trended on Twitter. A couple of celebrity visits and a mainstream five-star article had seen the little family-run restaurant’s popular soar.  
  
Sonny couldn't understand it.  
  
Rafael thought it might have something to do with the photograph he'd submitted along with his review. Just a snapshot, taken on his phone, of the busy kitchen at work. Taken through the window from the main restaurant, Sonny stood, lips pursed in thought, haloed by the steam from the range at his back. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off corded muscle; a few strands of hair had sprung free from his hair gel to frame his face.  
  
Rafael had a lot of thoughts about that photograph.  
  
“You don’t understand, Rafi,” Sonny whined.  
  
Rafael hid his smile behind his hand. He was not charmed by Carisi acting like a toddler. He was not.  
  
“The scallops, they’re important to the flavour of the whole dish. They give it — y’know — body, roundness. Without ‘em, everything’s outta whack. The swordfish, the prawns, the sauce…”  
  
“I don't like scallops.”  
  
“You ever try ‘em?”  
  
“That’s not the point.”  
  
“You haven't even tried them!” Sonny crowed.  
  
“Sonny, I’m a grown adult. I know my own preferences. I don't need to try something to know that I won’t like it.”  
  
Sonny blinked, his smile shifting into a smirk. What…? _Oh…_ Rafael hadn’t meant for that to sound so...  
  
“You have a dirty mind, Mr Carisi.”  
  
“I’m not saying anythin’, Counsellor.”  
  
Sonny tapped the notepad restlessly against one of his long legs. “Try the spiedini — as it comes — for me. If you hate it, I’ll make you something else. Whatever you like.”  
  
Rafael swallowed, sucker punched by the one-two hit of Sonny’s petted lip and puppy dog eyes. He waved his free hand and took another mouthful of minestrone. He swallowed.  
  
“Bring me whatever you like. I trust you, Sonny.”  
  
Sonny beamed. “I won't let you down, Rafi.”  



	5. Dolce

  
“You said you’d try anything I asked you to, right?”  
  
“That is _not_ what I said, and you know it—”  
  
“So, anyway, I want you to taste these and tell me what you think of them.”  
  
“Isn’t that cheating?”  
  
“Smartass,” Sonny chuckled.  
  
“Fine,” said Rafael. “What is it I'm trying?”  
  
Sonny scoffed, “I'm not telling you that Rafi. It's a blind taste test. So I’ll know what you really think.”  
  
“As if I've ever kept my opinions to myself.”  
  
“I _will_ tell you that they’re all sweets. I’m rethinking our dessert menu.”  
  
They were in Sonny’s private office, a small room the size of a cupboard, sandwiched behind the dining room and next to the kitchen.  
  
Rafael perked up, straightening in his chair, and lifted his feet down from where he’d propped them on the seat opposite. He wondered if Sonny had noticed the little cartoon bowls of spaghetti and meatballs on his socks.  
  
“Alright, hit me with your best shot.”  
  
“You have to shut your eyes.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“You have to shut your eyes, Rafi, so you don't see what they are.”  
  
Grumbling — but secretly thrilled Sonny would trust him with something so important as the revered _Il Nonna Carisi_ menu — Rafael closed his eyes. There was a clinking and clattering, Sonny moving around plates or bowls, no doubt, then something smooth and cold pressed against his lips. Was that… a spoon?  
  
“Absolutely not!” Rafael’s eyes flew open. “Sonny, I can feed myself.”  
  
“You promised!”  
  
“I thought you’d at least give me the— You know what? Fine, nevermind. Whatever.” He crossed his arms over his chest and squeezed his eyes shut again. He thought he sensed something moving over him, a gust of air ghosted across his cheek.  
  
He winked open one eye.  
  
Sonny was bent in two, standing over him, waving a hand before his eyes.  
  
With a long-suffering sigh — and a masterfully hidden smile — Rafael shut his eyes again.  
  
“Open up,” Sonny said brightly.  
  
The spoon slid between Rafael’s lips. Flavour exploded across his tongue. He tried to place exactly what it was he was tasting.  
  
“Chocolate mousse?” he asked.  
  
“With orange and pistachio,” Sonny replied. “What do you think?”  
  
“It’s good. The citrus is a nice contrast, and the pistachio is a bit unusual. I've not seen anything similar on any other menu.”  
  
Sonny flushed bashfully, his long eyelashes fluttering. “I found it on the back of a postcard when we were going through my nonno’s things. Something his ma sent him; I think.”  
  
Rafael nodded. “An old family recipe then. Appropriate. What else have you got for me?” He was enjoying himself now. He tended towards savoury snacks, as a rule, but Sonny’s enthusiasm was infectious.  
  
Sonny had set up a little wall of menus across the table and he busied himself with something behind it.  
  
“Close your eyes.”  
  
“Again? Sonny, I’m not sure I should be letting you just shove whatever you fancy into my mouth.”  
  
He froze, his mind playing the sentence back to him in horrific slow-motion. Like a rising tide of shame, he felt heat flood his neck, cheeks, and ears.  
  
Across the table, Sonny blinked at him, wide-eyed.  
  
The moment drew out, the muffled sound of the restaurant’s traditional Italian music — filtering through to the little back office — filled the pause with mocking good cheer.  
  
Rafael was about to go — to leave. To leave _Il Nonna Carisi_ , Manhattan and New York City entirely, if needs be. Why couldn't the floor just swallow him up? God, what he’d give for an armed robbery right now, a distraction.  
  
Sonny broke the silence — probably not as long as it had seemed — with a snort and a guffaw.  
  
“How about we keep to dessert for now? This is a family-friendly establishment, ya know?” He was grinning broadly, a self-satisfied, childish joy.  
  
Rafael blew out a sigh of relief and let loose a small chuckle of his own. He rolled his eyes at Sonny. “Remind me why I’m dating an utter child, won't you?”  
  
Mid-cackle, Sonny’s mouth snapped shut with an audible snap.  
  
“Dating?” he whimpered.  
  
 _Damn…_  
  
As if laughing at him, the hot flush surged back up to color his face. “That is— Not… if you—” he swallowed. “I just assumed.” And what was that line about assumptions? “I mean, Sonny. You’re hand feeding me. We’ve had dinner together every night for the past week.”  
  
And it was true.  
  
On Monday, Rafael had had the braciole di vitello with fennel and red pepper. Sonny had the eggplant parmigana. Tuesday, Rafael had tried the seabass, seasoned with garlic and parsley while Sonny snacked on fried calamari with garlic lemon drip. Wednesday, Sonny had made them both a classic spaghetti carbonara. Thursday… Rafael couldn’t remember what they’d eaten on Thursday, but he knew that he hadn’t turned on his stove — or eaten dinner anywhere else — in days and days.  
  
“This is a restaurant,” Sonny spluttered. “People come here to eat! How was I supposed to know you wanted me to ask you out? _Do_ you want me to ask you out?”  
  
“Do you want me to want you to ask me out?”  
  
Sonny stuck his tongue out, “Who’s the child now?”  
  
“Still you,” Rafael smiled. “Sonny Carisi, would you like to go out for dinner with me?”  
  
“Rafael,” Sonny smirked. “I thought you'd never ask.” He pulled a plate from behind the makeshift screen.  
  
“Tiramisu?” How had Sonny known that it was Rafael’s favorite?  
  
“Here. Try this one next.”  



	6. Homecooking

  
“And here I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”  
  
“I said, I don’t cook. There’s a difference: I _choose_ not to.”  
  
Sonny shrugged, dipping his pinkie into the simmering sauce, “Your ma says you can’t.”  
  
Rafael thwacked him on the hand with his wooden spoon.  
  
Sonny bit back a laugh. He had never seen someone look so serious about sauce. He smirked.  
  
“My mother,” Rafael said, “says a lot of things. I’ve told you not to listen to her.”  
  
“You shouldn’t bring her around the restaurant every Tuesday then, should you?”  
  
“She likes the breadsticks…” Rafael grumbled.  
  
Sonny laughed, loud and easy. “And what, I should just ignore her then? Face it, Rafi, your ma likes me.”  
  
“I’m sure mothers all over the city like you, Carisi. You’re an overgrown puppy.”  
  
“Aww Rafi, admit it. You like me just fine too.”  
  
Rafael smirked but went back to stirring the sauce.  
  
They were in Rafael’s apartment that evening. Just like they had been most evening for the last few weeks. At least, most evenings after Sonny had finished up in the kitchen at _Il Nonna Carisi_.  
  
Sonny had tried to tempt Rafael into staying at his place occasionally, but that had lasted precisely one time. Rafael hadn’t been impressed by the closet-sized bedroom, littered with crumpled laundry, or the coffee table stacked high with magazine and books. There were recipe ideas jotted onto the backs of old receipts and scattered polaroid snapshots from the retro camera his ‘niece’ had gotten him for Christmas.  
  
Teresa might be a battle-axe, but she always bought the best presents. With Bella’s new baby and, well… Gina… Sonny was lucky if his other sisters remembered to get him a card.  
  
Those were lying on the table too.  
  
Sonny didn't think it was too bad. Sure, if he had some free time, the place could do with a quick clean, but he wasn’t living in squalor.  
  
Rafael disagreed.  
  
He’d moved Sonny, a duffle-bag of almost acceptable clothes and a stack of Sonny’s cookbooks into his own apartment the next afternoon. Sonny didn't mind. Rafael’s apartment was bigger, with a big window in the lounge and a bedroom that caught the morning sun. It had two comfortable sofas — one rarely used — and a kitchen far too large for a food critic who never cooked.  
  
“So, what are we making?” Sonny asked.  
  
“Mami’s spaghetti bolognese.”  
  
“Spaghetti bolognese? You know I’m Italian right? Spaghetti bolognese ain’t gonna impress me.”  
  
Rafael hit him with the spoon again. This time it actually stung. Sonny sucked his finger into his mouth, letting go with a purposely obscene pop. The sauce actually wasn’t half bad.  
  
“For one thing, you haven’t tried Lucia Barba’s bolognese, so you can just wait and see. Second, who says I’m trying to impress you, Sonny? As if I need to.”  
  
The words were haughty, Rafael’s head tilted back just a little. Sonny had noticed he did that when challenged — threatened or nervous — a schoolboy habit to make himself seem just that little bit taller. Sonny slipped the spoon from Rafael’s hand and rested it against the pot handle.  
  
“You know you already impress me plenty, right?”  
  
“Sonny, everything impresses you,” Rafael sighed.  
  
Sonny grinned, put his hands on Rafael’s waist and turned the other man to face him. “You really do though,” he said, whispering into Rafael’s neck as if that would make the other man believe him. Gently, he pressed his lips against the skin before him. The tan skin at Rafael’s jaw was rough, showing the faintest hint of five o’clock shadow.  
  
Drawing a distracted moan from the shorter man, Sonny flicked his eyes up to see Rafael’s flutter closed. Thick, dark lashes fanned out across his cheeks. Sonny smirked as Rafael murmured his name. Nimble fingers skimmed Rafael’s collar, ghosting along warm skin to fumble with the button.  
  
Rafael twitched against him, his hand flying up and colliding with Sonny’s ear.  
  
“Do you smell burning?”  
  
“What the—? Jesus, Sonny. I told you not to leave the dish towel on the range!”  
  
“I didn’t! Here, I—”  
  
“Careful with the—!”  
  
Sonny’s elbow caught something solid.  
  
There was a crash.  
  
Rafael yelped.  
  
Time seemed to slow. Sonny felt his mouth drop in slow motion.  
  
Hot tomato sauce splashed across the stove and the cabinets in an elegant arch. The pot flipped, tumbling end over end, bolognese sliding free to splatter on the kitchen floor with every turn.  
  
Rafael and Sonny stared at the empty pot as it rolled along on its side, through the mess of sauce it had dumped out, and into the longue, leaving a trail of crimson on the beige rug in its wake. Finally, agonisingly, it came to a sudden stop against the back — the cream back — of the spare sofa.  
  
Sonny’s heart pounded in his throat. Cold horror washed over him. It was like looking at a crime scene photo — or so he imagined.  
  
“I am so sorry, Rafi.” He lunged across the kitchen, spurred into motion, grabbing for the cloth, knowing how little good it would do for a stain like this one. Tears stung at his eyes. “I am so sorry,” he repeated. “I’ll clean it up. I’ll get the rug replaced. I’ll pay—”  
  
“Sonny. Sonny!” Rafael caught Sonny’s face between his hands, pulling him down to meet soft, green eyes. “Mi querido, calm down. It’s just pasta sauce. Are you okay? You didn’t get splashed? Burned?”  
  
Sonny shook his head, twisting the dishtowel between his hands.  
  
“Then it’s nothing to worry about.” Rafael smiled. “I’ve been meaning to replace that rug anyway.”  
  
Sonny snorted but let himself be teased into a matching smile. He nodded. Rafael glanced down to check his watch.  
  
“It's late. We can pick up the worst of it and I'll call in someone to clean up in the morning. Tonight, how do you feel about takeout?”  
  
Sony sighed, relief settling about him like one of the thick quilts on Rafael’s bed: warm and soothing. “I hear there’s a Thai place near here that does incredible Kah Moo Palo”.  
  
Rafael kissed him soundly before stepping away.  
  
“I’ll go and give them a call.”  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter @LazyMedusa.


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